She still has a ring on her finger and sometimes in bed he tells her that he will give her another when they graduate. And that she'll give him one too. She smiles at the simplicity.
They don't play Devil's advocate with each other anymore – learning long ago that considering the negative still won't prepare you. It will happen anyway.
They want to say that they'll always stay but they can't be sure of that – and it's not good enough to pretend. He doesn't want to lie to her – not about that. She would never give him false hope.
He's not used to people staying – and neither is she. It's nice to be wrong about someone as love foams in her mouth – light and airy – desperate to escape.
*
They are impossibly impractical while grocery shopping. Their styles don't match at all – he wanders round the store at random throwing too many of whatever he wants in a basket. She has a list – checks it methodically – and walks a set path through the aisles, one after another. He thinks it's cute but he isn't about to get organised and join her.
They meet back at the checkout and she asks him how he's going to live on fifteen bags of chips, a crate of cola, three cans of frosting and some fake-ID beer. He wants to know why she bothers pretending that she's going to cook when they both have take-out on speed dial.
Eventually she concedes that the long-grain rice was a little optimistic and he picks up a bag of apples and a carton of berries.
By the time she gets to his car her fingers are dripping and stained with blackberry juice. He laughs at her, bringing her hand up to his mouth as he licks a finger clean.
She shivers and he breaks the speed limit on the way home.
*
He has craved something simple, something nice his whole life, thinking that quick comfort from under the covers would do – it was neither complicated nor unpleasant but it wasn't the kind of simple he had ever been looking for. She offers more comfort outside of bed than she ever does in the sheets. She is not one to squander her hips and thighs on pity.
She sits in a chair opposite him, every now and then catching him looking at her like she might dissolve under his breath. A small smile tries to reassure him, but she is a part of his everyday and it would be so much more difficult to let go now.
He wonders when he started letting her become his routine, embedded in his life rather than just a convenience skating through. He likes it – but it's scarier than her ring.
*
He pushes her hard and fast, tight against the cold glass pane. She gasps as icy condensation hits her back – her t-shirt riding up. His fingers fumble, grasping the front of her jeans – stumbling over the buttons. Her lips break apart on his shoulder and she bites his shirt to keep from crying out as he finally gets his hand against her flesh.
There are cameras – somewhere. And if they catch this is will be a Hollywood Headline for at least the next week. But somewhere between him telling her to be quiet and her hitting her head as it rocked backwards against the freezer she forgets to care. It's three am and the store is quite deserted. They probably shouldn't have come back for the forgotten ice cream and a bottle of tequila for good measure.
His chest is tight as he tries to keep his breathing under control and the aisle is dark and on the other side – over his shoulder – there are stacks of children's ice-creams. They really shouldn't be witnessing her grab his arm and pull his hand out of her pants so that she can get nimble fingers in between them to attack his own jeans. Sticky fingers thrust into her hair and the glass is steaming up.
She tugs impatiently at his zip – frustrated – it's stuck and as her hands get more forceful he bursts out laughing. She pulls back, eyes going wide and quickly pulls her own jeans closed as an assistant rounds the corner. He eyes them suspiciously, Logan still laughing, and after asking if they need any help retires back to the checkout – watching them disdainfully.
She squints at him, hair mussed and breathing heavy as he leans against the same plate glass – lungs frothing. Finally he takes her hand daintily and salutes to the clerk on the way to the door with a self-satisfying smirk, it's only when she gets back to her room that she realises they didn't get the ice cream.
*
They argue over little things like the news – things they don't even believe in but have to be right about.
At ten in the evening she finds him against her doorframe and she knows that they are alright. They don't really apologise – just ignore that it ever happened. They're not quick to say "I'm sorry" and turn it into something redundant. He nods at her and she smirks a little with her lips pressed against her teeth. He runs a hand along the edge of her jeans and she pulls him a little closer – his back against the door while she fumbles with the lock.
When the door finally relents they stumble backwards into her room – the lights still off – and he lifts her easily as she wraps her legs around his hips, grinding closer. He can barely stand now. They tumble back onto the bed, hard. She's on top of him and she pulls him up and into her kiss by his shirt. He pushes her sweater down off her shoulders, ripping the seam of her tank top up her body. She kisses him when her face isn't obscured by fabric and works equally hard to rid him of any remaining clothing.
She stops at his pants – hesitating – her right eyebrow raises a little and she actually wants him to say it. They never apologise but this time she was right and she wants some recognition – just for kicks. Just to see him squirm. His zipper is half down and her hot breath is close to his skin – making his fingers curl tight into the sheets.
On his back – with her above him – he gazes at the stubborn grin on her hovering mouth. He scowls at her when a slip of pink tongue runs out across her lips; but she merely raises her eyebrows in return – waiting. Sighing in defeat he groans, throwing his head back forcefully against the mattress: Veronica Mars is smarter than me.
He hates it when she's right about the news – but she loves it when he admits defeat. And he reaps the rewards of that as his zipper slides down on her fingertips.
*
He prods her in the ribs gently – laughing that it's her fault he has so much laundry in the first place. She doesn't buy that, even when he justifies that they sleep in his room more. She raises her eyebrows, shrugging with her lips and tells him that it's okay; she just won't sleep there anymore. He shakes his head, grinning – fingers dancing up and down her arms.
He grabs her suddenly – hands warm on her waist – and spins her up and round, lifting her to sit on the dryer in front of him. He kisses her sweetly, her mouth opening for him easily. She is perched precariously on the edge of the dryer – hands on his chest as she leans into the strokes of his tongue. Slow and sweet and mellow in comparison to the way she ended up matching his height. When he pulls away he hands her a packet of washing powder and points out that he never gets the amount right anyway. She throws the box back at him with a roll of her eyes and starts separating her colours – a small smile on her face as she watches him puzzle over the instructions – twice, and look for the measuring cup at the bottom of the packet. No success.
*
He curls his mouth into the corner of her collarbone moving over taut skin thoroughly. She knows that he will not be just another heartache between her hips and he knows that she will try to stay.
Her fingers graze up scarred skin which is shivering – there is no guarantee, there never is – but some things are more permanent than others. Tattoo ink and angry scars and the skin that is still there beneath all that. Skin that is heated and quaking and needs to be touched constantly. They are twenty and they are together and this might not be the be all and the end all but they think it must be something very close.
They might not ever tempt fate by declaring themselves with another set of rings, but she drags her tongue up his jaw heavily and he kisses her like a "thank you".